I want to be
that last sip of wine
to touch your lips
and kiss you goodnight.

I could be
your bitter red
or sweat white,
lingering in your throat.

Though, over the years,
I've soured
and can understand
being put away.

Still, I am happy
to float away
in my want
and imagine your sip.

I dreamt last night  
of a dinner for two,
distant, shrouded in fog,  
a feast fit for royalty.

But the first taste  
was heavy, bittersweet,  
a blend of memories  
clinging to my teeth.

Somehow, you reached me,  
and for a moment, I was full.
But the cruel rip of waking  
just left me to starve.

When is that moment
Between growing and dying
that I feel fulfilled

Silence finally settles like dust,
A bitter ice has formed.
There is no battle fought by neglect
That’s ever chosen a victor.

But a dent was made,
In the deepest part of me.
Small, yet enough to rust,
Giving grip for weeds.

And oh how they thrived,
Gorging off of ancient wounds.
Feeding on painful sin,
growing into sickening hate.

Is this what you wanted?
Hate that could melt through faith,
As if the point's been proven,
You still hold to your silence.

You dog,
Lurking in my shadow,
Still, patient,
Happy to watch these weeds grow.

Something has grabbed me.
Smoke heavy as lead,
Dragging me back with habit
Towards the numbness of forgetfulness

Wait, haven't I fought this before?
I know how this ends.
A rot, gluttonous,
Creeping over my borders.

I am prey, filled with fight,
But dangerous patience paralyzes me,
With earthly poison from its fang

Isn't it odd how pleasant this is,
Wrapping around me,
Inviting me to stay just a little longer

But what am giving up
To enjoy this comfort
Never mind anymore
I will meet it in forgetfulness again

I push
you pull.

I think
You Thought

I was
to be

Your one
and only.

I find it disturbing
How clever and careful
The past can be.

Like some scheme
It has laid a plan,
Raising invisible barriers
That push you to me.

It is oddly entertaining.
I like to see you hurt.
But who can I plead with
For this to stop?

Raised by a twisted Pavlov's bell.
You were taught to hate.
You picked a side and what bridge to burn,
And now I get to write your name in ash.

Oh, what luck; a gust of wind whips,
and your title tears away like pages from a book.
I have half a mind to reach for it,
but let it slip away, like the dust it is.

What am I to do with it?
The birds will find some use,
And maybe you'll make an ant's day.

And as flies pollinate your dirt,
I get to sit and remind myself:
That out of all you took
What you left, I get to appreciate a little more.